By Sebastian Tolhurst
At last he begins to stir beneath me.
“Wake up Richard Slade.”
A moan fills the dark.
“WAKE UP RICHARD SLADE.”
A startled gasp brings a grin from ear to ear.
“Who are you? Where
am I?” Richard Slade asks.
“Feel around you.
Feel that rough pine? You’re in
your grave Richard Slade.”
“I ain’t dead?”
“Sometimes the hangman misses his mark.”
“Hey mister, you get me out of here and I’ll make it worth
your while. Got a ton of loot hidden
just outside town. You get me free and
half’s yours.”
“I can’t get you out Richard Slade, I’m in the grave with
you.”
“Ain’t nobody in here but me, so quit lying and get
digging.”
“You misunderstand me. I’m not a rescuer; I’m the devil come
to claim you for my own.”
“Not yet Richard Slade, but soon. I shall just have to wait
patiently for you to waste away in this box.”
He starts hammering on the lid of his coffin, yelling for
someone to dig him out. I let him go
hoarse before I interject.
“There’s nobody up there Richard Slade. Nobody weeps over you; there is no graveyard
shift for your kind. Nothing stirs in
the cemetery but ghosts.”
“You’ve got no claim over me devil. I recanted; the father absolved me of my
sins.”
“Nothing, not even holy water, can ever wash the blood off
those hands Richard Slade. You are mine
for eternity. In the meantime I’ll watch
to see what happens first; do you run out of air or starve? But that is some time off. To pass the time shall I describe what I have
in store for you in hell?”
I begin to list every torture that awaits him below. I go into ever gory detail I can think
of. I drone on and on until I’m sure
there’s no way he can hear my voice over his desperate screams.
I sit up and cut a slice off the ham beside me, tearing a
chunk off a loaf of bread to go with it.
I’ve more than enough provisions to see me through the next few days.
Around me the graveyard is silent. The headstones cast long dark shadows in the
moonlight; but I am immune to the gloom.
I lean back against Richard Slade’s headstone again, tucking
the tube that snakes into the ground under my ear. I light my pipe, listening to his
screams. The sound of him scratching
wildly at his coffin lid brings a smile to me.
I imagine splinters piercing flesh, finger nails flying off. I wonder what torture to inflict upon his
mind next.
Those who aren’t good enough for hanging should think twice
before they lay a finger on the hangman’s daughter.